Monthly Archives: March 2015

Predictably Unpredictable that would be a proper tagline for me, though I heard myself described as Magic few times already both by my ex whom I was married for over twenty years and often said he has no grip on me and also by my current partner who calls me an Enigma from time to time saying I never fail to surprise him and there are so many facets in my personality that it is impossible to peg me down.

Free spirited, that’s another thing most people who know me better say I am. Most of the relationships I had had failed because I cannot conform to the picture of someone they had in mind. They say I cannot be owned and tied down. When they think they had me, I proved them wrong by flying away. Elusive, gypsy, stubborn, independent and confident, I heard myself being described like that. Sometimes I agree, sometimes not. I find that being in a relationship doesn’t mean one has to be tied down, put in a box and owned. You don’t necessarily have to know the person inside out (beside I find it impossible to really know someone one hundred percent. People grow and people evolved. The person you knew ten years ago will not be the same person today) a little bit of mystery is good for the relationship anyway. It keeps the union fresh and exciting, don’t you think so?

My son once called me bohemian (whatever that means) I wonder how he will describe his father. My daughter on the other hand has countless descriptions of me, none of them ‘mother.’

What I think is: we are a lot of things to a lot of people, depending on who is viewing. In the end it all comes down to perception. Most of it has nothing to do with who we really are and often the opposite of how we think of ourselves.

For now I will stick to what I’ve said in the beginning of this post; predictably unpredictable will be the closest description of who I am at the moment so I decided it will be my tagline.

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Today, (3:51) for the first time, I really start to consider a probable solution for my on-going problem. (Insomnia) I never even toy with the idea before, but months of not being able to sleep at night and being drawn to bed at dawn forced me to think the unthinkable.

As long as I can remember, I have this strange bond with the night. I could be dead tired working whole day, but when the sun goes down, I feel re-charged! Energetic! As if there is some electric current running through my body. I feel excited, euphoric, alive and almost happy!

When it gets dark, I feel so different, like I suddenly possess some extra senses and the other five are working much, much keener, sharper, stronger. It makes me restless. I want per se to move, to do something, to channel energy and whatever it is that is happening to me. I started taking long walks at an early age, later, it manifested in different strange ways and habits; like hanging around videokes, doing graveyard shifts, combing the whole areas for fiestas, outdoors parties for no matter how recluse or introvert I am, I cannot be confined. I hate discos and closed places. I need to be in the middle of the people in open areas, I need space!

What I did when I was younger was organized get together in strange places in the middle of the night, like playing spirit of the glass in town cemetery, breaking in empty houses, sitting on the roof of some school building watching the moon, sleeping in churches, and spending nights in catastrophe areas. I remember when a whole subdivision collapsed due to some engineering faults, the place looks like some ghost town but to me it looks beautiful! I did everything in my power to be able to get in there even though the place was heavily guarded. We spent few nights there, me and a group of young kids. Till some few years ago I always surrounded myself with pretty, young people. I like them around me. I fed on their innocence, energy, enthusiasm and zest. They inspired me and heal my wandering soul in some ways.

When I get older and circumstances rendered me almost prisoner, I turned to books, and later in writing. I often let myself be locked in, in a library or museum. The time I spent there was one of the few happiest moments in my life. I felt like a kid in a candy/toy store.

When situations unable me to continue my odd nocturnal habits, I contented myself by redecorating my house or rearranging furniture in the middle of the night till dawn. Of course it wasn’t the same, but I’ve got to do something, anything. In worse cases, I sorted out my closet and watched old films. Very degrading.

Today, lying next to D. I think the unthinkable; what if I give in to inevitable? What if I taste blood? Before, I would not even consider it, I thought the idea would repulse me, but no, it was… tempting. I closed my eyes and imagine a warm blood sliding across my tongue through my throat, the thought is sort of inviting, exciting even. I could almost taste the fluid, and contrary to what I expected, it brought smile on my face.

I reached out and touched D.’s warm body, it felt good! I looked at his neck and felt the main artery underneath, it pulsed and throbbed under my fingers, I thought… would I like the taste? Would it be liberating? Will I find my true calling? Could it ease my nerves? Can it cure my restlessness and insane wanderings?

I removed my hand from his neck reluctantly saying to myself: “Maybe next time. Maybe next time…”

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Tell us about a time things came this close to working out… but didn’t. What happened next? Would you like the chance to try again, or are you happy with how things eventually worked out?

Way back in the year 2000, I’ve been to a place where there were only fifty houses and all of the inhabitants family; either by blood or by marriage. One had to walk four kilometres just to buy bread, but it was always a pleasant walk because we were accompanied by constant sounds of the nearby streams and the divine smells of coffee flowers; it was like a dream. A dream that lasted three months.

The thing I remember the most about the place was the rain. It always rain. Not the rain we or I normally know of. It was like there was typhoon every day. The people there laughed at me because for them it was normal. The place was between two mountains, hauling wind and torrent were nothing but a part of their daily existence.

That was also the time I considered to settle down and get married. My dream was to own a nipa hut by the creek surrounded with flowers, keep some pigs and chickens, have a baby boy who smells good and a husband who comes home in the evening from working in the mountains bearing a whole banana bunch and carrying a big bolo tied around his middle. Then he will look at me with undisguised desire in his eyes and you can fill in the blank. I did, still do from time to time. Silly I know but…

There was the perfect place, together with the perfect someone who made me realized that “peaceful” was/is good enough reason to consider tying down with someone. Close, but unfortunately no cigar. Our worlds are too far apart. It was heaven at that moment but reality is different. I went home and he stays.

I was for a time devastated. So much so that I wrote a book about it and a sequel on how I dream or want the story, our story to develop. In book two, I let go of myself; I poured my heart out, my desire, my longing onto the pages. Those dreams reside now in a shoe box inside the closet. Never seen by any other pair of eyes but mine.

Would I like the chance to try again? The answer is no. I have other priorities now, other goals, different desire.

Am I happy with how things eventually worked out? Yes and no. Yes because what I have now is quite similar but upgraded minus the pigs and chickens. It’s also peaceful. In fact, too much of it sometimes it drives me crazy. No, because the passion that was there in my previous life is missing and I’m a very passionate person; but I know in life we can impossibly have everything…

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I always think there is too much stress placed on possessions. They don’t bring happiness, not even comfort. Some of the most contended people I know live in cottages no bigger than rich people’s garages, but they keep a good table and a glowing hearth; they have a good quantity of bedding and crockery, a patch of vegetables garden and a few hens, and it is as if they owned the earth; they seem to want for nothing more. Once you start acquiring, the impulse becomes a habit. I should know…

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Lonely people tend, rather, to be lonely because they decline to bear the psychic costs of being around other humans. They are allergic to people. People affect them too strongly.

~ David Foster Wallace

I tend to believe this. I, for one need at least days if not weeks to recuperate after being with people. I feel they suck my energy. I can sense their troubles, sadness in pain. Even in the streets, strangers who brush through me leave something behind and I can feel it sticking on my skin, burrowing itself through my pores and ending up in my system keeping me awake whole night.

Lately it is getting much worse. I can hardly stand a visit from family members, even my own children exhaust me. I feel they are invading my privacy and crumbling my structure, messing up my otherwise settled day; I can’t wait for them to go away so I can lie in my bed under the sheets, trembling.

I wonder if there is someone out there who replays in her/his head all the conversations that went on during encounters with people, analyzing every word of what have been said and looking for a better approach to improve the communications and connections, looking for hidden meaning and motives among them.

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If I could have any author –living or dead – write my biography, who would I choose?

Hmmm… tricky. I would like to say the great Edgar Allan Poe or the Mighty Stephen King but despite of all the strange occurrences, hallucinatory personal experiences and numerous encounters with the unknown I still think they are the wrong writers to pen my life.

I briefly debated between Charlotte Brontë and Lesley Pearse and even considered Philippa Gregory for all the obvious reasons but in the end if there is someone who is going to write my Memoirs or (Auto)biography that would be no other than me.

I know myself and my story better than anyone else. Who could bring them to life more vivid and truer than the one who experience them personally? I alone know the horror, the difficulties, the joy and sorrow of what I’ve been through, I can recall them like no one else and I alone can give justice to those feelings which is (I believe) necessary to write those kinds of books to make it real and effective rather just an account of one’s personal life.

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She’d put up some sort of mental curtain and she had always thought it was strong but she didn’t know for sure. Certainly there were holes in it and if you look through them you run the risk of seeing things in purple haze. Beyond that you maybe don’t want to see. It’s better not to look, just as it is better not even to glance at yourself in the mirror…

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“There is a place so pure and true, beyond your deep and restless thoughts you’ll find an imaginative longitude for dear shelter, completely lost in time… It’s made of love, of magic dreams, where you can be yourself and free… Where roses of white and scarlet bloom…tranquility, waves kissing shore… A place you’ll never want to leave, a place for dreamers to believe… So, spread the wings and let your soul fly up high and reach your castle in the sky…”

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Lately I’m beginning to rely more and more on my archives to find articles to post on my blog. I simply have no time to write new ones. Since the weather change for the better I find myself saddle with a lot of things to tackle on top of the daily routine and bits and pieces of my ordinary life.

Suddenly there is roof, gate, driveway and patio to wash; perennials to dig, move and divide, hedges and trees to trim, spent flowers and ornamental grasses to cut, the pond needs cleaning so is the gutter and the garage needs some tidying up and organizing. Not to mention the house is ready for the annual spring cleaning and of course all those chores have to be done all over again for our country house which is a bit more daunting than doing the same for our house in the suburb because not only the house in the country is three times bigger, I have a real cottage garden there too as opposed to landscaped one we have here near the city. And anyone who has a cottage garden knows how hard it is to keep and maintain one. It seems easy for it has relax abandoned atmosphere but looks can be deceiving believe you me. And of course there is the vegetables garden as well…

Another thing is (now that the weather is good) I prefer working outside than sitting on the front of the computer. As if all those things that seemed important last winter don’t hold any significance anymore now that the sun is shining. All I want to do is go outside and explore, watch the things grow and listen to the birds singing. I even resume my daily afternoon walk after work. The day is getting longer and I have more time to roam and relax. In the weekend I find myself visiting garden centres again to look for new wonderful plants to add to my collection or just to walk around and observe. It’s nice to see all those possibilities one can have if one chooses to.

There is a lot of work to be done but I’m doing it with lightheartedness and enthusiasm. Spring is truly magical, full of life, hopes, inspirations and new horizons to explore. I can hardly wait for the flowers to bloom.

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I always let myself be distracted by small details, the troubles that can fill any day, any week, if you let them. I neglect to sit back and enjoy the overall experience. I keep thinking that once this and that is repaired and this is solved and that is explained, then I can sit back and relax, savor the air, the scent of roses. As if life were a garment that had to have every minute wrinkle ironed out of it, that had to be perfectly smooth before it could be worn. Knowing that nothing is ever perfectly smooth…

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THE PAINT IN CHURCHES GETS WORN AWAY QUICKER THAN IN OTHER BUILDINGS. I THINK IT’S THE FRICTION OF THE SOULS. THEY GRIND THEMSELVES AGAINST THE CEILINGS AND WALLS.

IF I COULD REACH FOR SOMETHING BRILLIANT, THAT WOULD BE THE HOME WHICH BEEN DENIED TO ME AND THE PRESENCE OF THE PEACE I'VE NEVER KNOWN...

Why I write

I write to exorcise some ghosts (there are plenty) to make peace with my past, to keep sane, to let skeletons out the closet and occasionally let them dance naked, to vent. I write because I don’t know any better.

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Healology

“Growing up, I always had a soldier mentality. As a kid I wanted to be a soldier, a fighter pilot, a covert agent, professions that require a great deal of bravery and risk and putting oneself in grave danger in order to complete the mission. Even though I did not become all those things, and unless my predisposition, in its youngest years, already had me leaning towards them, the interest that was there still shaped my philosophies. To this day I honor risk and sacrifice for the good of others – my views on life and love are heavily influenced by this.”

― Criss Jami

Musing

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

“I have this strange feeling that I’m not myself anymore. It’s hard to put into words, but I guess it’s like I was fast asleep, and someone came, disassembled me, and hurriedly put me back together again. That sort of feeling.”

- Haruki Murakami

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeoning of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.

what are you afraid of?

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Kindred Spirits

Introversion

“...I also believe that introversion is my greatest strength. I have such a strong inner life that I’m never bored and only occasionally lonely. No matter what mayhem is happening around me, I know I can always turn inward.”

what i’ve been doing…

We were born to be free, to expand our horizons by going where we have never gone before, and not to hang out in the relative comfort and safety of the nest, the known. There is a place within us that is courageous beyond our human understanding; it yearns to explore beyond the boundaries of our daily life.

- Dennis Merritt Jones

Once I had started my solitude, I realized anew that it was easy for me to become accustomed to this state and that the most effortless existence for me was in fact in one in which I was not obliged to speak to anyone. My fretful attitude to life left me. Each dead day had its charm.

- Yukio Mishima

It well may be,
That we will never meet again,
In this lifetime.
So let me say before we part,
So much of me,
Is made of what I learned from you.
You’ll be with me,
Like a handprint on my heart.
And now whatever way our stories end,
I know you have re-written mine,
By being part of my life…

I'm Michelle. This is my blog. I write about women and fatness, expound upon semi-coherent thoughts I have in the middle of the night, and offer tough love to those in whom I am disappointed; they are legion.